The Humans They Love
by Emrysnyx
Summary: This is about a nations and the humans they love. Will do lots of 'em. Probably. Mainly focuses on England and France, just because I focus on their history. Contains character death, language, and stuff. I had nooo idea what genres these should be.
1. Jeanne d'Arc

**So, this is about the nations and the humans they love. I'll try to do it chronologically, but there will be a few mess ups. I'm probably going to have a majority of France and England, but I'll try to branch out...**

**Dislaimer: Hetalia is not mine.**

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France and Jeanne d'Arc

Angst

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Sometimes, early in the morning, before he is fully awake, he opens his eyes and he can almost see her silhouette standing in the doorframe. Sometimes in the silence he can almost hear her laugh. Sometimes, as the days flow by, he almost feels her presence...

It is the Revolution. Screaming and shouting, a woman runs by. For a moment, he could swear it was her. Then he sees the woman's face and the illusion evaporates.

Napoleon is leading him to war, again and again, and he is battling the English. Not for the first time he tells himself he is fighting for revenge. For her.

It is WWI. Francis is in the trench, and the dust makes him choke; he thinks of that fire.

France is occupied. WWII. He sits in a little cell. He wishes, in the back of his mind, that she could rescue him.

Francis can still remember the first time he met her. She strode in, planted her fists on her hips, and declared that she would save France. Looking back, he wishes he had sent her away, sent her home, kept her safe (saved her life). But he didn't. He was suffering, and he needed help. She was his saviour, his heroine.

Why didn't he tell her that? She should have known. She deserved to know.

Now, of course, it's too late. Too late, and there's no going back. The smoke billows in the air, choking him, but he refuses to leave. He fights through the crowd.

"Jeanne!" She looks up, surprise flitting across her face.

"Francois! Why are you here?" A look similar to annoyance gleams momentarily in her eyes.

"Jeanne, I'm so sorry! I tried to save you! I really did! I'm so sorry, so sorry!" He babbles, unsure if she understands; all he knows is that this is his fault.

"It's okay, Francois. It really is. I'm just glad you're here," She has freed one hand, and she caresses his cheek with it. The flesh is painfully hot. He can see that the smoke is getting to her; her eyes are fluttering, her face heated, her arm trembling.

"Jeanne! Jeanne, _je t'aime_!" And then she falls limp.

Jeanne d'Arc is gone.

Years pass. He has been in many battles, loved many individuals, seen many things. But he can still feel her fire-hot hand on his cheek.


	2. Eleanor d'Aquitaine

**Author's Note: First of all, and this goes for all of the stories, I OWN NOTHING.**

**Second, this is taking place just before her divorce from Louis and subsequent (is that the right word?) marriage to Henry. Uh... warning: OC character. (Oh, speaking of OC, a lot of these are going to be OC since they don't exist in APH's manga/webcomics/anime, so if you're dead against OCs, stop reading this RIGHT NOW.) Ooh, also, there's going to be a fair amount of angst in these, since I like writing angst. I'll try to make them happy though, I promise.**

**Also, I didn't do too much research on her, so if she's off in some way, I'm sorry. Enough of my blabber. Here's the story.**

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France and Eleanor d'Aquitaine

Category: Frienship

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France likes to watch her dance. She is his muse, his lady troubadour, his trouble maker. His Queen Eleanor. She spins around and around, glossy red hair shining. She is beautiful, Francis thinks, as she sings gaily with her head flung back. The King is too shy with her, but it isn't really his fault. Louis was raised to be a saint, not a King. But now it's causing trouble.

She is smiling now, but he knows in not too long she will be yelling again, arguing over some affair of the state. The two just don't, won't, _can't_ get along. Francis had hoped these new crusades will help. She spots him, sitting in the shadows, watching her.

"Sir Francis!" Her face lights up, "Did you hear the new troubadour that I met yesterday?"

He laughs; this is Eleanor at her best, speaking of her music.

"It is hard to keep track of them all, _ma chere_. Was he the one wearing the green cap?"

"Yes. The one with eyes like the forests of France, like the Seine!" And she smiles even wider, "And did you meet the Lord Henry of Normandie when he visited us? Did you not think him strong?" And there is a gleam in her eyes which Francis does not like, not at all. He hesitates.

"Well, Sir Francis? What did you think of him?" Her smile slips a little. Her voice is imperious, "Tell me. What did you think of him?"

He frowns; this is Eleanor at her worst, ambitious and clawing for power.

"He is certainly is strong, _ma Reine._" And he has lots and lots of land, Francis adds silently, frowning at her.

She notices his unease, and turns the matter to other things. To music, and poetry, and Sir Francis did you see that beautiful new hawk? And France wishes she did not love power quite so much. Wishes they could stay like this, speaking of unimportant things, forever.


	3. Yue Fei

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Bah, another lazy story. I know nothing about Chinese history, but I figured I'd better do some branching out in my countries. This story was pretty much just made up with basic info. Also, the whole 'boy' thing is because I didn't want to reveal who China was. Also, I'm imagining him young-ish-er at the time.**

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China and Yue Fei

Category: Hurt/Comfort and Frienship, maybe a dash of Drama

Yao is crumbling on the ground, his hair grimy and matted with filth. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed; his mouth hangs open, lips crusted with blood. He can't move- he can hardly breathe. He wonders if this is the end. Is death coming? The sky is stormy gray, the same as it was an hour ago and an hour before that; the time trails behind him like a muddy scar.

Suddenly something- no, someone- enters his vision. The man squats down, checks his pulse. Yao makes a little effort, a strange gasping sound, to show that he is still alive. His vision is blurry, but he can make out the outline of a smile on the man's face.

"Poor boy. Did you know, boy, that my country is falling, dying? I will save it, I will be a hero. Here, I will save you first- you shall be my first victory," The man laughs, picks him up. Yao can only think, _I am saved?_ before the world slides dark.

When he awakes, he is clean for the first time in too long. He stares at the sky above him. It is clearing, just slightly. He attempts to sit up, but a hand pushes him back.

"No, boy, do not move yet. You are still very weak. Just concentrate on healing," The man says. Yao wants to protest, to say that he heals quickly, but when he opens his mouth, all he says is,

"Thank you," After a pause, "What is your name?"

The man smiles once again and says nothing. He just helps Yao drink a cup of watered down wine.  
"Your voice is too hoarse, my boy," There is a trace of laughter in his voice as he walks away. Yao wants to ask again, but sleep catches him before he can.

It is only later, when Yao can walk and talk and laugh again that he asks. The man looks surprised.

"I have not told you?" Yao shakes his head, "Well, boy, my name is Yue Fei."

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**What did you think?**

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I wrote this in about 15 minutes while listening to Russian rock music (Jane Air). They're very inspiring.

Review, or guilt shall plague you for the rest of your days.


	4. Louis I

**I'm on a roll, I guess. This is Hungary and one of her early kings. I refer to Hungary as 'he' because, well, that's what everyone thought. Plus I think it's kind of cute. But I guess if you like gen-flip you can think of it that way too. Any way you want it, readers.**

**Poland speech is now in effect: I'm, like, totally sorry this is like totally super short short. OMG Seriously.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. Not even the inspiration/idea- I got it from beloved Wikipedia. (Yea, I know Wikipedia's often wrong but I'm in** _**love**_**).**

**Enjoy!**

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Hungary and Louis I

Genres: Friendship and maybe sorta Family?

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He rides proud and tall on his horse, shifting slightly. He likes to tell himself that he is perfectly okay, but can't help himself from glancing over at him from time to time. He may be a country- no, an empire- but he's still just a little boy.

The little boy in question is wiping the sleep from his eyes. He tried to nap on the pony, but it just jolted too much. He looks up at him, his king, his almost-father, and smiles.

"Don't worry, Hungary, we're almost home," The king smiles. His heart lifts: soon he will get to see Poland and Prussia and the rest! It has been a while.

When they arrive, the little boy is off to play with his friend immediately, even though his hair is matted and filthy and his clothes are covered in mud and blood.

"Feliks! Gilbert! I'm home!" He runs to them, laughing. Everything is okay; the country is at peace; he has friends by his side.

And it's all thanks to Louis I of Hungary. He hopes he will remember to bury Louis by his favorite saint, King Saint Ladislaus. After all, though he does not like to think of it, little Hungary knows his great King will one day die. But he will keep on living, a strong, proud empire.

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**So, what did you think? Please, review and tell me! I swear, I won't bite!**


	5. Imre Nagy

**I know I said I would try to do these chronologically, but I wanted to follow up the other Hungary one. This will probably be my last Hungary one(at least in this series). **

**Dislaimer: I own nothing, etc etc. **

**Anyways, here you go... **

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Hungary and Imre Nagy

Genres: Angst and Tragedy and Drama

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Not an empire anymore- merely a pawn now, a vassal of Russia with his twisted violet eyes and wintery strength. Not a boy anymore- now she's a woman, and maybe only Prussia saw it coming (but he's not Prussia anymore, he's East Germany now and it's breaking his heart).

But this year, this month, these days will be different. She's going to get away from all this: get back to Austria, get back to freedom, get back to herself.

And that's what she believes as she helps pull down Stalin's statue with her people, to cries of joy and relief. It is 1956 and she's been under Soviet's thumb for eleven years. That's long enough.

She wants _**out**_.

Russia lets them elect their own prime minister: Imre Nagy. This politician isn't rotten like the rest. Russia- his name is Soviet now; she has to remember that- is not hiding in this man's shadow. Maybe Soviet is letting go? She hopes so.

She cheers when he announces that Hungary is leaving the Soviet Union. She is free! Soviet has lost his grip on her. There are celebrations, and people laughing in the streets. And for the first time in eleven years Hungary doesn't feel like she's dying.

And then the tanks come.

It is over so quickly- she hardly has time to blink before the world is crumbling again. Imre Nagy is dead and before his death can really sink in, before the tears can begin to leak out of scared green eyes, Soviet has his big scarred hand around her throat once more.

Imre Nagy gave her hope, but now he's gone and there's no freedom anymore (no freedom, no escape, no laughter, no hope).

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**So, what didja think? I was a little blurry on the facts about the Hungarian Uprising of 1956 but I don't think I screwed anything up too badly...**

**Please, review! Oh, and does anyone have suggestions for a human? I'm trying to stick to Middle Ages right now, but any ideas are welcome (I can always use them later).**


	6. Leonardo da Vinci

**Okay, so I'm going for something light and heart-warming and whatnot. Little Italy, I'd picture him as a child, but not a toddler. But hey, your interpretation!**

**Enjoy! (Oh, and I feel awesome cause I'm posting up a bunch of stuff in ONE NIGHT.**

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Genres: Family and Friendship

Feliciano tilted his head a little to the left, letting the sunlight catch his hair. He liked watching the man paint. It was soothing, to the see the creation of beauty. This man reminded him of Grandpa Rome, and he felt safe in his presence.

When he was here, in these rooms that almost _tasted_ of creativity, it was easy to forget that Austria and France were fighting over him again. The man glanced at him. His hair was long and greying, and his face wrinkled, but his eyes were welcoming.

"Hello, again, little Italia. Would you like to stay for a little while and paint with me?" Feliciano nodded eagerly.

The two worked together, the sun falling in warm ripples, in a calm room smelling of glazes. Their faces - old and young- were intent on their creations. The old man was painting a dark landscape, something with beautiful women and halos and chubby children. Feliciano found it fascinating, but remained equally concentrated on his piece. He tried to make it as beautiful as his companion's, but there was a certain angle to the body that seemed to be twisted, awkward. When the elderly man looked over and saw the boy's struggle, he gently guided his hand, showing him how to paint it just right.

"Who is that, Italia?" He asked, gesturing to the blond in the painting, with somber blue eyes and a set mouth.

"He is a boy who lives at my house. I like him very, very much, but sometimes he is a little scary," The brunet chirped. The other painter nodded, thoughtful, and resumed his work. But the Italian boy interrupted him, his round face suddenly serious, "Messer da Vinci, is it alright for me to like him very very much?" Da Vinci's face creased into a smile.

"Yes. If you like him very, very much, little Italia," The boy relaxed, and their work resumed, occasionally talking, usually about art. It was as the sun was setting that Italia had to leave.

"But," He protested, eyes shining with the threat of tears, "My piece! I have not yet finished, Messer da Vinci! Please, let me finish!"

Leonardo laughed.

"Little Italia, you may return tomorrow to finish. But I can see that you are very tired. You cannot make good artwork when you are so tired! Now come, let's take you home," Feliciano grasped the old man's hand as he yawned sleepily.

"Only if I can come back tomorrow," He murmured, still worried.

"Of course, little Italia."

Italy and Leonardo da Vinci


	7. Isabella of Spain

**title: Bless Me Sweet Queen**

**rating: PG**

**warning: um, some mentions of religion?**

**disclaimer: not mine at all. Spain as a character belongs to Himaruya.**

**genre: h/c, angst, gen, power-mongering, the usual.**

Spain kneels, eyes level with the hem of her luxurious skirts. He glances up at her; she is smiling down. Where is her husband? No matter: he prefers his Queen.

"Rise, Antonio. You have done well in your travels. Spain is prospering!" Her hair shines as bright as the gold he has brought to her. He waits for her to speak again; surely she has more to say than praise. She does.

"I am marrying Katarina to the English prince, Arthur. She will be Queen of England. I would like you to accompany her, Antonio," She looks at him expectantly. He dares not defy her calm, steady gaze. He wouldn't want to, in any case. Antonio does not want to see that troubling English knave, but since she has asked him to, he will.

Queen Isabella has made him stronger, brighter, a true power. He can truly shape the world this way, a sword in one hand and a cross in the other. Ferdinand does not speak to him: that is solely Isabella's territory. But Spain watches him, watches them both, craft a new country: he is strong and unified.

It hurt, of course it did. The Reconquista was not without its darkness. She called them growing pains and kissed his forehead. She did not look at the jagged red line across his stomach, did not speak of the way he woke at night, screaming and nauseous. He still wakes hurting and clutches a cross of pure gold, praying for release.

There is guilt, and guidance. He kneels at the altar and cries, devotion and shame. What was necessary and what was cruelty? The lines blur in his mind.

He crosses the Atlantic and steps foot and a new shore and tells himself:

This is my beginning. My Queen, My King: you have given me one religion, you have given me new power, you have given me this new land. This is my world, New World, and I shall rule it.


	8. Elizabeth I

**Title: Gloriana**

**Rating: K**

**Warning: More religious mentions (and I'd like to clarify, I'm writing a certain POV here. These are not necessarily my beliefs, nor am I saying you should hold those beliefs or anything at all like that).**

**Disclaimer: It is not mine, it will never be mine.**

**Genre: Romance, angst, etc.**

She is fiery in shades of red and gold, and he would not give her up for the world. She has great balls and flirts with all the suitors, giving them just a glimpse of the throne, and he watches from the sidelines. It leaves him feeling sad and bitter, like a deep mold of emptiness has grown on his heart.

The cruelest thing about being a nation is watching them all die, watching the countless lives slip by. But to have her, that is the true treasure of this age, and her very presence leaves a strange, thick ecstasy in his mind.

She is a balm, fixing and mending, pulling the country back together with her words and thoughts. He sometimes still wakes with headaches, but they have lessened so much; they no longer wake him in the night. He looks at France, chaos and day and blood running through the gutters of Paris, and sighs a little in deep relief. He looks at the ocean, that he has sailed time and again. His men have gone around the world, across all the ocean waters. And those ocean waters have seen other ships, too, Spanish ships with thousands of men, dashed to bits by wind and the fervor of the Protestant people.

But he knows the toll it takes on her; he can the tightness at the edge of her mouth, the tension is her body (so subtle, she looks like she's having the time of her life). He remembers August of '72, the way the tears had leaped to her eyes but never spilled. He has seen her lose those she loved, watched them drop while she charged ahead. Her skin is drawn, and she has wrinkles spreading from her mouth and eyes.

But she is his wife- married as ever to her country and her people- and he has never loved her more. She is his glorious lady, his good Queen Bess.

**Hey guys. So I'm thinking. Are you guys hoping for angst? Romance? Etc? What would you guys like to see as I begin to write the 17th century?**

**Hope you like it. Let me know in a comment or a message. If you have any suggestions or requests, let me know. I cannot promise that I will get to them. I am a ditz, and I am lazy. But I will **_**try**_**.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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